


I Can't Go Back

by ASOIAFside (UMsArchive)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elia gets the roses, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, People REALIZE THINGS TM, Politics at minimum, Renly is a girl, Rhaegar is bethroted to her, Romance, The Knight of the Laughting Tree is Jaime's problem, a lot of it, and that changes a lot, no magic or prophecies, so basically things get a bit tangled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27450505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/ASOIAFside
Summary: A misplaced crown of roses finds a different lap, but misplaced it is regardless, bearing the consequences, and politics sway and change directions as easily as the wind.To save what eventually appears as a bad deal, a disgruntled Tywin Lannister - who has only betrothed his daughter to Robert Baratheon with a future connection to the Crown in mind - means to support Viserys' ascension instead.But Rhaegar has never had it in him to be as relenting as Duncan.
Relationships: Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Jaime Lannister/Lyanna Stark, minor Ashara Dayne/Oberyn Martell
Comments: 25
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my NaNoWriMo project, btw.
> 
> AGES-
> 
> Renley is like 9 or 10.  
> Brandon/Elia - 22  
> Jaime/Lyanna/Cersei - 16/17  
> Lysa - 15  
> Ned/Ashara/Oberyn/Rhaegar - 20  
> Robert/Cat - 19  
> These are the relevant ones, I guess?
> 
> The ships are not exactly ‘popular’ ones, but I wanted to have some fun by twisting things a bit, so no character bashing, please. Not even passive aggressive ones.

(Inspiration piece by [las-rzeczy@deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/las-rzeczy/art/Elia-x-Rhaegar-A-song-of-Fire-and-Ice-Sun-775993222). Posted with permission.)

**Cersei**

  
  


“The emerald and pearl.”

“Right away, Milady.”

Cersei looks scrutinizingly in the mirror, pouting. 

And why is she even putting so much effort into looking good for tonight, anyway? Her possibly - alternative - soon to be betrothed is not worth the effort - he’s seen his eyes turn for just about _anything_ , so he couldn’t possibly appreciate real distinction or beauty - and all her efforts in trying to place herself closer to the Royal table were in vain. Without the Queen making an appearance, she has no good excuse on why she should, as one of her Ladies, however. And so it’s become quite worthless she’s even managed to be out here, with the excuse of having the chance to see her family, as well as faking some silly girlish enthusiasm at the prospect of a Tourney and some balls. She is already all nauseous of having to play friends with Whent’s daughter, hoping to snag a chance of getting invited to a more exclusive dinner with the royals and the Lord and Ladies of the Castle. 

It hasn’t happened, however. The Whents are foreign to due elegant civilities, she supposes, gritting her teeth. What has been the point of being sent to Court, if the Prince has been residing in Dragonstone for the past years? She spends her days looking the Queen’s gowns over for stains and feigning innocence at some upstart’s gushing of having ‘ _kissed_ a boy for the first time’. 

She might yet seduce him and turn her life around. Her face and figure are at the peak of her blossoming, everybody says so. If she could get him to just fall at her feet, that would be enough. Any other consequence could be dealt with. Father would make House Baratheon swallow their protests by sword, and let them find something else to do with their snot covered little wimp.

She’s in a better mood for other reasons, in the least, for she’s got to see Jaime. Climbed into his bed, and took out her frustrations on someone in more pleasurable ways, until she was too exhausted to think of anything else. She cannot imagine parting with him, even when she’ll get Prince Rhaegar for herself, and so she hopes her plans in _that_ regard will work out, too.

  
  


**Elia**

Elia rubs her hands together. They are always cold when she is out of Dorne. It's been a chilly winter, even at Sunspear. The kind of cold that asks for an extra shawl in the day, and even a fire at night, and a tight bundle of blankets. 

For the last half a year or so, she's been prohibited from going out past sundown by their Maester. Those moons ago, she caught a cold so bad, she later found out he'd confessed to her brothers the fever might take her overnight. It didn't, but she's lost considerable weight, and she’s still catching up. 

Here, in Harrenhal, she's uncomfortably equipped with furs, even. A well padded stuffy coat, rigid leather boots on her feet, though the Maester’s are advertising spring.

It's not exactly an exciting trip. There are few Ladies from Dorne. Most of the ones from around the Realm she doesn't know well, and some she really doesn't even want to interact with. Such as Lady Cersei. Their mothers and the Queen have grown into womanhood together in King's Landing the way boys would do when they go off to win their spurs with the same knight. Very different comings of age, from boys to girls, in between cavalries and courtesies, she supposes. 

But she didn't like her as much as Mother may have loved Lady Joanna, the one time they've met. Granted, the Western girl has been but a child who’s just lost her mother, and Elia nearly a woman grown already, with better understanding perhaps.

She does knows why Doran insisted on this outing at all. She has offers to pick out from, in Dorne. But he’s still giving it a try towards an outside alliance, as Mother has had the ambition for. 

She grips tighter at her shawl as she moves about the room, checking that what she requested for the night has been properly laid out. The sleeves of the dress are long, but the shoulders will be left naked, which makes her shiver only for looking at it, so she puts her faith in Lady Whent’s promise that expenses will not be spared in heating the halls so well for the night ‘one will feel like in summer’. She’s got no ample bosom to make good work of a deep neckline, but some teasing bits of skin a woman must show on such occasions, her mother always said. 

***

It’s definitely warm, but it doesn’t exactly feel ‘like summer’, though she takes her time to warmly praise the efforts of the Lady of the House when she and her brother are individually welcomed in.

“If it were a summer in Hell,” he bends slightly to whisper.

“ _Oberyn_ ,” she half-heartedly chastises him, but there’s laughter in her voice, and Lady Whent is well out of earshot by that time anyway.

It’s not that the _hotness_ is overbearing. It’s the stuffy air about them, hundreds of people milling about, and many mutual pardons happen as the two of them and others likewise struggle to find their own spots. The only ones relieved of such troubles were the hosts and the royals, of course, well and comfortably seated and awaiting, by the time the rest of the nobility and attendants were invited in. 

She hasn’t attended a gathering of this scale in quite a while, and the atmosphere feels a bit overbearing, and that youthful enthusiasm that should make up for it is lacking. Maybe she’s just getting older, and the fancy of shiny dresses, and gallant men and dancing, is not enough to cover up the skeleton of what these occasions are, in essence: the excuse to gather influential people together. For young men to show off what their might could be in battle, if challenged, and fathers to showcase their legacy through them, for talk of politics and business, and, of course, for the scouting of potential marriage alliances. Lord Whent ‘celebrating his daughter’s 16th nameday’ easily translates to ‘Lord Whent lets everybody know his daughter is now perfectly fit for a marriage bed, and so is awaiting the offers of any interested parties’. Even the usually isolated Northern patriarch is in attendance with such thoughts in mind, she’s heard. 

They pass Ser Baelor Hightower, and they exchange nice gallantries, and he colours slightly to address her, and Elia is not sure whether it’s for the amusing part of their history together, or for the memory of having once courted her, as he’s now introducing his new wife. And there’s no grudge or bitterness that she feels as she nicely takes the Lady’s hand, a genuine smile on her face, but she would admit to a faint sinking feeling. Not for the sake of lost love - for her own infatuation has hardly been there, even while being at the age of extreme fancies, and has quickly dissolved for the smallest reason - but the same odd bout of a tightening gap somewhere within, for every time a similar moment happens. 

It’s not jealousy, and it’s certainly not some desperation to be married. It’s just that feeling of loneliness, as all companions her age seem to be increasingly moving on to a different stage of their lives, and friendships continue but are never quite the same as whole different preoccupations overtake their lives. Everything changes, but she stays the same. And she knows there’s nothing wrong with that. But some nights, alone, she does venture to wonder about one offer or the other, and what her life would have been if she made do with whatever was the little thing that made her say ‘no’ at the time. And she also knows, within a few short moments, that it is foolish to think so. That none of these would have been _it_ for her. That she would have always known it, and lived wondering about a free life like this, where she has yet to make a choice. She doesn’t know what she’s frankly waiting for, but the wait is not exactly that tragic an experience. And even if she might end up with prospects of a lukewarm feeling, regardless, she can at least not have the regrets of rushing into it without knowing for sure _that_ was just all reality allows.

  
  


Oberyn has teased her, the one time she’s tried to put it into words, for he has his own philosophies of life. He believes she’s being miserable - ‘ **_That_ ** _, I’m not_ !’ she’s quickly countered - because she’s not _doing this right_ , using this time to enjoy herself, take risks, know all kinds of people, grasp all forbidden fruits before they will be truly forbidden.

“What’s to wonder about regarding what the _future_ will be like? The future is simple. You marry, you have children, you grow old, you get _them_ married. It’s _now_ that life is worth pondering over, Elia!” he would rant passionately, persuasively, grasping her hand. But such moments when she thinks she’ll take a chance come and go, too, with an unsure, soft ‘no’ at a crucial time, so there’s that. 

“What’s it about the whole woeful act that seems to put all of you women in a trance,” he leans in to say, a bit too loudly for such a comment in the current mixed company, but he needs the extra effort to make himself heard in the rukkus, as women’s hands are clapping loudly for Prince Rhaegar’s finished song - leaving her and maybe many others feeling like it has finished too soon.

“It’s the womanly instinct of nurturing? Is that it?” Oberyn mercilessly goes on, “See a beaten down bird and want to bring it back to good health? Or is he deemed handsome enough to set aside the poor prospects of such a likely lamentable mood?”

“ _Oberyn_ ,” she giggles, though this time actually a bit wary her brother might be heard, “Besides, the generalisation of women as ‘natural nurturing wimps’ is unkind in itself.” 

“Maybe so. And _yet_ , I would need to take off my shoes, too, if I were to attempt counting the weeping Ladies on my fingers, and it might yet not be enough. Look over _there-_ ,” he points. “Even the Stark one, in all their Stark-ish stiffness is wiping off a tear. _Ridiculous_.”

“Well, the King, his own father, is throwing him sour looks anytime he gets the chance, and his betrothed is ten and busy with her dolls. He doesn’t really have too much going for him right now to put him in good spirits, really,” she voices her own observation, cautious all the while for fear she may actually be heard.

  
  


But Oberyn has got his thoughts diverted a different way. “A pretty little thing, if you look a bit longer.” His gaze has shifted with a wolfish grin back to the Stark table. “Rumors have it among the lordlings that the old _lion_ is sniffing round _that_ family for an alliance.” 

Elia turns to him with a warning look. “Oberyn, _don’t_ you dare.” She is sure she’s not mistaken about the danger in the tone of his voice. Lord Tywin’s slight is many years behind them, but _he’s_ never quite gotten over it. And she’s guessing his idea of a payback in between the lines.

“Don’t think too ill of me, sister. I wouldn’t have had too scandalous a thought. Mayhaps some sweet words and stealing a kiss or two, for the poor thing is in need of keeping some good memories of her youth before she’s hitched to a pompous, pretentious Lannister boy to curse for the rest of her days - her child’s first word will probably be ‘coins’. Else, she would be left to live on nothing but these dreamy staring of the pretty-ish face at the royal table, and there’s hardly a chance of getting _this_ much _there_. Well, as much as any of the other poor weeping Ladies in this Hall, to be fair, if his obnoxiously clean public reputation is to be relied upon.”

And _there_ , he gets a different smile, with a different sort of menace to it, too, as he turns back to Elia.

“What _now_ ?” she challenges him right away, though she’s not sure she _wants_ to know.

“Why haven’t you been dancing?” he asks almost innocently.

“I wasn’t _asked_ much,” she shifts in her seat, diverting her gaze from too close an inspection. A couple men had come around in the beginning, but she was still adjusting to the stuffiness of the room and wasn’t quite in the mood - the same ever unsure ‘no’ at the wrong time.

“Well, of course not. Any time I come to check on you, you’re keeping to yourself here, arms crossed and frowning brows. So, since you need a dance partner _anyway-_ ,” he smoothly turns his chair around to face her, “What if I walked around, ask someone a question, so they can ask someone else a question-,” he waves his hand about, tantalising.

“Get to the likely alarming point you’ve already reached in your own head, Oberyn,” she raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m talking about the whole ‘getting something nice just because you want it’ once in a while thing I’m always nagging you about.”

“There’s nothing ‘nice’ that I want right now.”

“Well, yes, not accounting for taste… I have my own reservation where the sour mood attached to the otherwise pretty picture is concerned,” and the rolling direction of his eyes towards _that_ table leaves no more doubt as to what and whom he is meaning. “Look at the lioness. What do you think _she’s_ doing, inching closer to that table, looking so enthused with whatever Lady Whent is saying, and forcing all that obnoxious laughter. The bold lass is shooting her shot at being a bit more than just another weeping Lady sighing dreamily from afar.”

“Ah, and a pity dance begged for by friends and family will make me the envy of this hall,” she sighs, pinching her nose. She wants to be exasperated, but Oberyn’s disposition doesn’t allow for it, his boisterous and well meaning scheming both amusing and mortifying her instead, soft hitched snorts puncturing her mockingly irritated words.

“Not _begged_ for, mind you. I’m pulling some strings, just to get his attention from whatever faraway land of mourning it’s currently habitating, and you pull that dress properly back off the shoulder and put on a nice smile, and we’ll see how this goes.”

“And then my slowly frizzling from the heat and humidity hair will catch his eyes and heart, and he will step his foot over the very table before him, jump through, and saunter all the way here,” she laughs, at this point, but her brother is already sitting up, scanning the room for whoever he’s targeting as intended messenger. “ _Oberyn_ ,” she insists, tentatively catching his sleeve, but he just winks and strolls off, seemingly having pinpointed the right person.

He then walks to none but Lady Ashara, whispering something in her ear, and she gently throws her head laughing at whatever he’s saying, and looks over at Elia herself. Elia chooses the safe path of merely smiling and raising her nearly full cup in salute in return, though her face feels warm, and Ashara playfully waves back.

Her and Oberyn talk for a couple of minutes, and then Ashara is off, walking gracefully towards the other end of the room, casually greeting a few people on the way, as if there’s no rush, even exchanging a few words with some. Finally, she reaches her brother, Ser Arthur, now a Kinsguard of the Targaryens, and he smiles and leans down to hear her speak. 

Elia is further flustered to see the silly ‘scheme’ Oberyn has laid out at the table is exactly what is happening, and she’s mortified to know what are the expressions and words exactly through which he’s chosen to relay the ‘message’.

And so the part she dreads most follows, when Arthur himself moves, and Elia ridiculously actually goes forth to straighten her dress in the panic, not having any idea of what else to do, her cheeks burning hot. 

The Crown Prince looks surprised, baffled even, to be taken out of his reverie, turning sideways to hear his Kingsguard speak. And whatever the choice of words Ser Arthur is going with, they only seem to add to his confusion at this address. And she’s cursing Oberyn, for all the future awkwardness she’ll feel for the rest of this trip, whenever as much as she crosses the path of the Targaryen man. And she doesn’t even know yet how bad this is going to be, for the Prince takes his time, exchanges a few more words with Arthur, seems to ask some questions, and, eventually, even smiles with what appears to be _amusement_ at the overall exchange. Elia has never once in her life wanted to hurt anyone, but right this moment, she’s got the unyielding conviction she’s to commit kinslaying by dawn.

And just when she wasn’t giving much thought to that happening at all, at this point, _he_ turns back around, scanning the Hall, and finds their table before she can even think of schooling her expression into something more becoming - or even choosing what that would even be. So he finds her wide-eyed, and flustered, and doesn’t look for long, or with too much of a reaction, and she feels like ‘taking chances’ remains quite pointless, if not taken in the right way.

  
  
  


**_Lyanna_ **

  
  
  


“Father will kill you,” Benjen whines, but still helps her dig through the piles of refurbished armour. It’s thanks to him they got in there at all, for she’s made him tell the armourer that it’s _him_ needing it, to play the knights with the other younger boys. 

“He won’t find out,” Lyanna says, putting aside a breastplate of the best proportions she’s managed to find so far. 

“He will, when you get knocked out, and they have to pick you up dead cold and deliver you back to him.”

“I _won’t_ fall off my horse, Benjen, even if they bludgeon me blue and purple - you know that better about me. And I asked Brandon about those three, and he says they are not strong, and quite mediocre riders besides.”

“They’re probably not strong enough for _Brandon_ . They are _knights_ , Lyanna.”

“But if they’re not good enough _riders_ for Brandon, then they’re not good enough riders for me, though. And that’s what really matters in the joust; I’ve heard him say so.”

“Brandon is a big mouthed fool. He has no doubt he’ll unhorse everybody and win. But there’s Kingsguards in the lists, and even the Crown Prince, too.” 

“So? He _might_ beat them. They only ever fought Southern folks before.”

“Brandon has no special Northern magic power, Lyanna. And they may have been at tourneys before only against Southern knights. But they _have_ . Brandon _hasn’t_.”

Lyanna shrugs. Brandon could be in the right, or it might be Benjen. But she wants to do this. 

Father has made it clear he’ll get her shipped off to a new home within the year, if all works the way he wants it to in his talks. Well, he’s said it in a nicer way than that, about the new grand life of a grown, married Lady awaiting Lyanna on the other side. But the thought of it makes her want to kick and cry, take out her horse one night and go wherever her heart desires, instead, if gone he wants her. 

  
  


She thinks of the one prospect he’s considering, Ned’s new friend, whom he’s pointed out to her. She thinks of watching him, laughing obnoxiously loud, slapping a greasy hand - which he’s been previously eating with - upon his satin clad knee, and the wine snorting out of his nose, which seemed to amuse him further, and she desperately wants to kick something - or _someone_. 

  
  


**_Rhaegar_ **

  
  


The polite fast breaking get-together is long, and at times excruciatingly mortifying, and he doesn’t know what it’s even meant to accomplish, in theory. From his father, he is ready to expect he fully _intends_ to make Rhaegar uncomfortable. Perhaps by being sure he would be haunted by this kind of memories, when they’ll ask him to bed her, in a matter of a handful of years. Or maybe he’s not thinking things that far - maybe it’s just the momentary amusement. That’s more likely with Father, these days in particular. Lord Steffon himself, _he probably_ vaguely believes is sincere in this ‘encouragement to let them know each other’.

“Any fruitful conversation with your Lady betrothed?” Arthur asks when he joins him at the door, finally being set free. He’s well meaning in his jesting, but there’s something of caution in his voice, too - he knows the matter is both laughable and sensitive a subject.

“Not much, but I believe I am now on speaking terms with _Mellisa_ ,” Rhaegar humours him.

Mellisa is the doll Renley has been carrying everywhere with her, during this tourney. _She’s_ been ‘answering’ most of Rhaegar’s polite questions on Renley’s behalf.

Rhaegar runs his jeweled hands through his hair, from skull to shoulder; straightens his cuffs. 

Lord Lannister is in bad relations enough with Aerys that Rhaegar would dare drop more obvious kinds of hints. But Lord Tywin is not shy himself in his _own_ hints, and how it would take a change of plans in Rhaegar’s own future nuptial plans, for that support to be granted. But to set aside his current betrothal would be setting aside House Baratheon, and that would put him back at square one. Nay, not even square one, for his men have heard word around of Lord Rickard Stark mingling with the Storm Lord, trying to turn his second son and Steffon’s eldest into real brother, and with the already set betrothal between Lord Brandon and Lady Catelyn Tully, he would be losing… _things he doesn’t even have to begin with_.

For the Stormlands are not even Rhaegar’s, in spite of his intended nuptials. Lord Baratheon is a simple minded man, and a royalist in its most basic sense - _his father’s_ man and friend. The unbelievable balancing act Lord Steffon unconsciously manages, between proper deference and an unbending, yet unassuming honesty of opinion makes him one of the few men his father genuinely relies on, and treats properly. And so Steffon’s allegiance for his King doesn’t waver in turn. 

A man of higher capacities would maybe have higher expectations of his King’s intelligence of better virtues, to give credit to such a clear devotion. But Steffon Baratheon is not a wise man himself. He’s just a blunt man, with a set, rigid opinion in the ways of the world around him.

Were Lord Steffon no longer around, his eldest and heir might have been an easy sway. Having a relative acquaintance of Lord Robert, he believes sharing a few cups of wine with him, and some big words about battle glory might have done it for _him_ , and with that one ticked off the list, the others would follow. Seven Hells, if he gets his cousin hyped up enough, he might rally them himself _for_ Rhaegar. As it is…

When Rhaegar is at his worst, tired and worn out and dejected, his patience worn thin, and the smell of a burning he’s had to witness will not leave his skin, his mind _will_ entertain the idea of being in some way involved in the concept of ‘Lord Steffon not being there anymore’. But he is not that kind of man, and he’s not sure whether that is for the best or for the worst. 

He is lost in such thoughts when Arthur calls for his attention, later that night, the rest of the festivities lost on him after he’s indulged the crowd with some entertainment of his own.

“I might have an idea for some mutual relief from an unbearable company.”

“ _Mutual_ for you and me?” Rhaegar asks, picking up a big purple grape.

“Mutual for you and another friend having a dreary festive night right now. My sister would bid me to take her friend for a dance to escape the insufferable teasing of her brother for a while, but I am on duty tonight. That brother is Prince Oberyn, and you’ve _met_ him. So I thought I could try to help _two_ friends.”

His eyes instinctively scan the crowd, though far from enthused. The Dornish Princess happened to glance that way, too, though, so his eyes do not linger to see too much, feeling a silly sense of embarrassment, as if he’s been caught in something he wasn’t supposed to do. 

What he did manage to see was discomfort of unknown origins on a big eyed mortified face, and as Arthur has predicted, he can in the least relate. 

“I could use having a half an hour of better company, and make it of mutual benefit, I suppose,” he concedes, for introducing the idea of the concept of dancing is giving him the frightening thought of his Father’s eventual malicious idea of bidding Rhaegar to dutifully invite his _betrothed_ for a dance, and that he would not let himself live through.

To tell the truth, half an hour of _solitude_ would be _the_ ideal, but better company comes well enough to a second, though he would find it better if it were company he was better acquainted with. He is no fan of trudging his way through the usual common pleasantries deemed necessary among strangers. 

So he leaves with the excuse of leading Lady Ashara back to her table, after sharing a few polite words, all the eyes following his every move, a sensation he’s almost numb to, by now. 

  
  


**_Tywin_ **

Lord Tywin’s mind is occupied by calculations, and nothing else. They take twists and turns, and then come back again, a goose with two golden eggs, eager to sell them, but afraid of missing out on the best price for having been in a hurry to exchange them for anything at all.

His eyes scan the room in between Lady Lyanna and Lady Lysa, not quite _looking_ at _them_ , in all fairness, but an invisible number over the top of their braided heads, of what the value of bidding for their maidenheads might come down to, given one case or the other. 

The - what Tywin, at least, deems as - cowardly childish indecisiveness of their Crown Prince is grating on his nerves, for all of that stalling of declaring his proper intentions to make good of an arrangement means time that passes in a extremely charged political landscape moving quick, and a one too many lost moment might mean Tywin would be losing second bests, too, while pining for the biggest gold pot. For if he can’t make Cersei a Queen in the end, and the foolish young man obeys his King Father in marrying his child-bride, then the child-bride’s oldest son is the closest he can get to the Crown for the time being, having a grandson at the head of a Kingdom, in the least, and keeping in mind that genealogy obsession of Targaryens, perhaps a potential granddaughter Queen. 

But he’s not the only man looking out for his ambitions, and he may lose two birds in one shot if Lord Rickard Stark shares his wine cups more often with his second son and Lord Robert, often attracting Lord Baratheon in that circle, will soon come to something.

For, if Prince Rhaegar would concede, then the Stark-Baratheon-Tully alliance might bear proper fruit for him, still, indirectly, for the sake of ailing that burned bridge in the abandonment of a Baratheon betrothed through intertwined marriages, Lady Lysa at Jaime’s arm completing a perfect circle. But if Cersei is not Queen, Lady Lysa would _not_ do, for the Riverlands’ Tully’s are insignificant a piece, and 

  
  


Lord Stark would have come out the triumphant winner, instead, and the epicentre of this power conglomeration. And all for a young Prince not bold enough to make up his mind. He does want him of a weak will as a _King_ , mind you. But that’s only something he can use if the rest of the ground is laid for it. And so if _that_ is not to happen soon-

  
  
  
  


**_Lyarra_ **

“A good companion for your son’s youthful adventures doesn’t necessarily make for a good companion for your daughter’s life,” Lyarra says carefully, later that night.

Rickard turns to her suddenly, perplexed, his previous effusions at the growing hopes he entertains to turn Lyanna’s prospects into reality all gone. “What is that to mean, woman?”

She looks up at him soberly, unmoved by the roughness of his voice. She’s known him for long enough to recognise it not as a sign of anger, or a want of intimidation, but a mere inclusive bit of his quick reacting and boisterous temper. When he does mean to raise his voice, one will see that dangerous sparks in his eyes, and know to thread carefully.

“I believe he’s got the character to step between our Ned and a blade, if need be. But he drinks too much, and acts disorderly afterwards, I hear.”

“So you can admit to considering him of loyal character, but have an issue with him merely being a lively young lad who enjoys a good laugh? Why, I would say that plays in his favour, too. For our Lyanna is wild enough to be his match, and few men would be ready to laugh at their impropriety, for Gods know she’ll bring him plenty.”

“What I am saying is, I would not trust him to one day be too drunk and disorderly with mine own daughter, that is. He would sure be fine when he finds it in himself to laugh, if Lyanna riles him up with some theatrics of hers, but what of the nights when she drives him angry instead?”

“He’s not the lad to take quick offense. Ned says so about him, and Ned would know.”

“Aye, My Lord. Perhaps no _quick_ offense. But - as both you and myself would know - a marriage is long years, and disagreements will always be. I know to mind my own, and come see you at a later time, instead, when you are cross. And I know you appreciate it, too, for it gives you the time to gather your thoughts. But Lyanna is of a temper to be cross and fiery, too, as well as he. What of when he is cross, and she won’t back down herself?”

“Men and women all find their own ways of arranging matters in between themselves in their marriage. What is good for us, does not have to be the same for them. And, all the same, you think too much as a woman. ‘What if husband and wife argue?’ Pah! You said it so yourself: all of us do. Lyanna needs a man of a strong will, else there would be no man in that house but your daughter. He’s a fine fellow enough, by the credentials of your own son, and the best we might find as an alliance for our House. He ought to have his own follies, as all men do. But what do you want? There ain’t no finding a better suited match for our unruly Lyanna, especially in a Southerner. That I admire about him, too. No Courtly pompousness in this one! Nay. Just the way a real man ought to be.”

Lady Lyarra sighs, but lets him be for now. He is way too passionate in the moment to make any progress in going against him any more than this, for today. But he is quite set in his idea, and if nothing else comes his way, Lyanna would have found herself her future before the end of this Tourney. Lyarra has no unreasonable notions about what marriage should be but for a proper companionship, and it’s in those terms that she thinks now. She’s had no affections for Rickard when they were wed, but she’s grown her own particular fondness over the years, and a peacefulness to lay beside him. But that takes years of work - some of his, but on her side, mostly - and the willingness to. And she knows her stubborn daughter. If she has no companion of a kind to inspire that willingness in her, she will never even try.

But of one thing her Lord husband does speak sense. These are Southern men, and Lyanna has no Southern charms to attract most of their lot. She does not sing, and though she enjoys dancing, she is not an elegant performer by it. She has prettiness, but she puts no further effort to look proper - no attentiveness to spot a stain on a dress, a disordered ruffle, or a displaced lock of her in her braid. She has an enthusiastic, eager mind, and the charm that comes with idyllic dreaminess, but often fails on the side of polite charms and courtesies. 

Lord Rickard has wanted a more Southerner education for their daughter, to aid in his longtime schemings and ambitions. Lyarra was chosen for his wife out of no other particularity or inclination than her prolonged stays spent with her Blackwood relatives, partaking in their mixed lifestyle, ideologically Northern, but socially Southern. 

And Lyarra has tried her best, but she is a mother, and that is a failing weakness in itself. She would have to let Lyanna be, when she would go as far as to completely fail to attend a harping lesson, for, above anything, she was also aware trying to force her to be near the instrument would cause no progress of her skills during the grudging session, and would only increase her disgust for it. She would also have to let her play in the dirt with her brothers, even if preparing to drag her to a rough scrub as soon as it was over, for she looked too immensely happy, and the dress she squeezed her into in the morning was already ruined beyond repair all the same - no hurry would make a difference towards taking that carriage oils out. 

But some things might break or stain in Lyanna’s life that she will no longer be in power to either mend or wave off.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, Lady Lyarra Stark is here for no reason, bc, the fuck, she, as well as endless female characters in this series, especially mothers, were dead for no reason anyway… The Princess of Dorne might also not conveniently be ‘dead mysteriously of a mysterious illness’, just to feel something, but I haven’t decided yet. If that happens, I might go as far and do the more unspeakable: give her an actual name. We’ll see. 

I hate that I’m making Tywin seem like he does have a brain cell or two, but all that thought process is more to the benefit of the readers to see what the characters are all about. Tywin Lannister in himself in canon is a politically bluffing idiot.

This chapter is mainly... testing the waters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POVs: Rhaegar, Elia, Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small update, or at least what I would consider small, given my other fic where I’m struggling to keep chapters at 10k at most. But that’s precisely why I am tying my hands when I get to 5k on others. I am not creating such another hard to handle monster again. Also-
> 
> 1\. Heads up about how the whole “sickly and flatchested” deal is to be interpreted in this fic, bc there will be characters making nasty comments as such, of course, like in canon. But I’ve seen it being too much OVERdramatised in fics before, with lines about ‘feeling her ribs through her dress’ in a dance, and the like. So, the way I’m reading into these appelatives is the old-timey concept of a woman being about a 12-14 UK size, with round shoulders and plump cheeks to be considered ‘healthy, robust and blooming’, while being on the thinner side would be considered rather ‘sickly and drawn’. So, like, nothing dramatic here. Elia would just be a slimer woman with an A cup. Just the same for Lyanna and ‘looking like a boy’ comments. She’s active and has a more athletic built, hence more on the toned than the soft side. 
> 
> 2.I’ve changed the rating from ‘Mature’ to ‘Explicit’ in the meantime, and that was because, as I kept on writing, future Jaime/Lyanna smutty scenes got a bit enthusiastic, and while it’s not really going full on explicit smut still, I thought it’s better to be safe than sorry where ratings and warnings are concerned.

**_Rhaegar_ **

  
  


Lady Ashara’s table is further down than that of the representatives of Sunspear, of course, and to pass by it they must. And the Daynes being sworn to House Martell makes it not out of the common way that a stop there would happen for a few exchanged words, as a show of being properly polite and respectful, though they’ve crossed paths enough already during the gathering. And because the Crown Prince is the ‘stranger’ that she’s brought along, it is the appropriate way for her not to skip making ‘introductions’, though they all know who everyone is - or at least ‘must be’. And Lady Ashara follows by reminding Prince Oberyn that there’s a dance he’s promised her since the beginning of the evening, and how she has been waiting at her table  _ all night _ for him - though she’s been doing anything but. The boisterous Oberyn Martell jumps up to theatrically express his deepest regrets, claim unwillful forgetfulness, and proposes that he ought to fulfill the promise this very moment, lest another moment passes that he allows such dishonour on his word to continue - if the Prince Rhaegar, accompanying her at the moment, would allow it, of course. 

The ‘rules’ of courtesy have long since become contemptuously funny to Rhaegar, so while he hates to take part, he does watch it unfold with more amusement than derision, and plays his own small parts when required. He acknowledges the ‘introductions’ and is most obliging to free Lady Ashara of his own company, if she so wishes, venturing that he can very well keep the Princess Elia entertained, since she would be likewise left on her own. 

He keeps his sigh - as a general reaction to that entire scene - to himself as the two depart, and wonders whether he should stand, and follow up with the expected small talk, before eventually proposing a dance, or might as well take a seat instead, since the removal of the Dornish Prince happened in a different manner all the same, and he was himself removed from his own unwanted situation already; and the object of this walk has never been to  _ dance _ , after all.

“Someone with such a wide age gap between themselves and their younger brother might usually either envy or feel relief by witnessing  _ my  _ experience of it. I will suppose Your Grace’s impression would incline towards the second, this very moment.”

For the first real time this evening, he turns to actually  _ look  _ at Princess Elia for more than an absent fleeting glance. Her dark eyes are still twinkling, full of laughter, from her brother’s farewell dramatics, her lips still stretched wide, her cheeks reddened. The genuinity of her honest, naked delight, simple and plain, reflects slightly within him, smoothing over his more cynical approach to these Courtly antics. 

“Only if you’d like me to be honest,” he answers, leisurely taking that neighbouring seat, after all. “I  _ could  _ lie, as it’s expected in polite society. Everybody in this Hall does it as we speak. I’ve passed Lord Blanetree walking the thin line between complimenting Lady Blount’s horse hair wig with such words as to make it clear it definitely looks astonishing on her as to not insult her at present, but definitely not as good as her natural hair as to not insult her in general, but also close enough in splendour to her natural hair as to -  _ again  _ \- not insult her  _ now _ .”

“So you would at least have the gallantry to let me choose whether I want to hear lies about  _ my ‘ _ horse wig’,” and she glances shortly to where her ‘horse wig’ is now dancing with Lady Ashara. “But I must say I would probably be on Lord Blanetree’s side and venture that he is in fact just honest. That one’s ‘horse wig’ may not make for the best of hair it could be, but can be  _ generally  _ good enough.”

“Lucky for you and Lady Blount, to have great enough ‘horse wigs’, that you would not doubt a Lord Blanetree’s genuine approval.” 

“And maybe  _ you  _ have just given up on horse wigs altogether after trying on a couple bad ones. I believe it’s always a bad thing to set your mind too decidedly against one thing or another. It narrows your vision, and minimises your choices.”

He blinks, taken aback, and she straightens in her chair, adding, “My apologies. I really got carried away and made too passionate an affair out of mere ‘horse wigs’.”

Rhaegar smiles, turning slightly in his chair for better conversation leisure, arm draped over its back. “Why apologise? If anything, it’s quite an impressive art, to take a man’s pompous, snobbish presumptions and turn them into real wisdom and measure.”

“If you mean to politely describe me as patronising, that was really not my intention.”

“No, not at all. But it’s on me - that you say that. I opened the conversation with cynicism; I should expect to be suspected of cynicism hereafter.”

“Well, there’s still time to save your reputation, Your Grace. Just entertain me with  _ one  _ uncynical remark.”

“Let’s see.” He takes a turn of the hall with his eyes, looking around. “I must admit it’s hard. Anything I notice in these rooms, I cannot help but have a sneering comment I would add to it.” And as he talks so, his eyes are returning from his look-around and back onto the Princess, her black eyes shinier than the candlelight.

“Your eyes,” he unconsciously blurts out, but goes forth, even as he catches himself at it. “You have beautiful eyes, and I cannot think of anything mean I could say about that - or even contemplate in such terms.”

She blinks, understandably taken aback by the forwardness, but recovers quickly with a polite smile, “I see. My condescension from before was so irritating, you’ve decided to go with something I am in no position to mock in a dignified manner.”

He supposes that slip was quite the bluff, likely unwelcome, and up for misinterpretation of the intentions behind it. “Actually, you kind of just did,” he sighs, meaning to keep the atmosphere light. “You would not let me win any ground, by whatever cost, I see.”

“Strange,” she replies carefully, something odd in her expression, in her soft smile, “It did not quite feel like a winning strike.”

The crier takes away his chance of even attempting to read more into that, calling everyone’s attention with the announcement that the following is to be the last song, closing the dancing. Prince Oberyn and Lady Ashara are making good use of it, both now at the arms of different people, ready for a last start.

“Well, then-” Rhaegar turns back to Princess Elia. Whatever bubble they were in has been burst. There’s a whole different composure to her now, as if she’s readjusted to another stage of the evening, and he’s left wondering if that temporary sense of familiarity has been just another Courtly appearance well coordinated. He wonders if she has considered this as a second best to solitude, too. 

“It dawns on me, this would be the last one and I didn’t dance even once,” he comments in the silence, straining to see whether this exchange is indeed just courtesies turned on command. It’s  _ usually  _ easy to see. It’s  _ usually  _ easy to read.

“Nor did I,” she answers like she didn’t expect any other comment coming, but by her expression he still doesn’t know what that means. She then quickly colours. “Not an admission a woman should use to recommend herself to others, perhaps, but once you’ve initially refused some, you gain a reputation, I suppose.”

Rhaegar smiles gently. “Nor would it recommend a noble man, if he danced a hundred, particularly me, for it is no commendation that a Lady would need to struggle to make up a good reason to decline a man of high enough rank, in such a gathering, and eventually would accept even the worst partner just because there was no excuse to be found. So it shouldn't be a natural conclusion that a woman accepted me for being too eager, or that you accepted a man for other reasons but acting the proper way in polite society. With those presumptions in mind, would you take pity and lend me your hand for my last chance to dance tonight? At least three thirds of this crowd already think me quite the bore, sulking in my chair all night.” 

He’s surprised to find himself genuine in his desire to, but something about her company puts him at ease, and the prospect puts that twinkle in her eye and soft smile on her face that he quite enjoys seeing. 

“I shall oblige you, then. My horse wig currently has another head to smother, so I presume he wouldn’t mind the momentary loss of mine. And I would venture to claim you aren’t getting a poor choice either, for, I pride myself, it should be nearly a couple years since I last stepped on someone’s foot.”

“What else can a man ask for?” he sits up, reaching out his hand.

Her hand feels quite cold, in spite of the warm room. It’s not exactly proper to hold it whole, like that, as if trying to smother it into receiving his own warmth, instead. Especially when all his actions attract eyes so easily. As they do now, watching him stand up with a noble woman for the one and only time, tonight. But, hopefully, they would not think much of it. Hopefully, merely closing the evening with someone will appear as a general courtesy to honour the hosts for their efforts.

And he turns to Princess Elia determined to take advantage of it, as any man would. For, a dance is, above everything, an opportunity to touch the arm and waist of a respectable lady in good faith, to inch your face closer, to lean in and whisper in their ear with the explanation of practicability in the circumstances at hand. And he is just a man. And the smooth dark skin of her shoulders caught his attention almost as quickly as her dark eyes, as her quick wit. Things he doesn’t treat himself with often. Things he doesn’t even yearn for too often. But his companion is pretty, and witty, and sweet, and seemingly genuine. And it’s nice to feel like just another normal man at a feast, for a few minutes.

The song is a slow one, meant to deescalate young people’s enthusiasm for exercise, which he rather prefers to the contrasting frenzy of more popular dances. And he wants to talk some more, as much as he would have despised the idea of lengthy small talk before, but doesn’t truly know what to say. 

“It’s a beautiful song, but I must confess I wouldn’t have thought it  _ this  _ appealing to the general public,” she is the one to lean in first to whisper.

Rhaegar sees what she means. The dance floor was almost half empty before, but suddenly many others have discovered they might in fact enjoy taking another turn. Probably not quite the coincidence that the crowd is thicker wherever his and the Dornish Princess’ feet lead - all curious to see, all curious to hear.

“Suppose they have discovered to have judged  _ this  _ ‘horse wig’ too soon?” he leans on her other side in turn, and is amused to find her biting her lip with closed eyes at the recall.

“I’m starting to believe it was not the exercise you were looking for, but another occasion to make jest of my words.”

“There is still time for you to save your reputation, Princess. Entertain me with  _ one  _ speech I cannot make jest of.”

“ _ I _ asked for a ‘remark’, but you require a whole speech to absolve me. Till the end, you will not be fair. You have to at least narrow it down for me - choose the topic on which I might entertain you.”

“Dancing, I suppose, since we’re here now?”

“Ah, something you’ve avoided all night up until now, hence one thing you’d be likely ready to dismiss and deride right away, but you challenge me to make a speech of it that should make you reconsider.”

“You do make me sound very cruel.”

“So you aren’t even  _ trying  _ to be, just yet?”

He can only chuckle at that. 

"Well, then,” she takes a breath as they spin, thinking. She goes through the steps perfectly, even as her mind is elsewhere, changing hands and position and directions efortlessly. Rhaegar doesn’t mind the absent-mindness so much, for while she doesn’t look back, he himself is free to look on without trouble. 

  
  


“The one undeniable thing about dancing, I suppose,” she eventually leans in to speak again, coming back from a twirl, “-is, whether you have an ill or good opinion of it, you have to admit that the dance floor is quite the timeless place.” They release hands, twist and turn, then lock them together again. “It seems to be going on and on, whether you want to be done with it or prolong it, and then when the end comes, it always feels sharp and abrupt, regardless." And with feet crossed on opposite sides, one palm fully against the other’s, they come to a stop, the final couple chords of the lute following just on time.

As they stand back straight, and he offers her his arm, he says, “You had your answer from the start. You just waited for the right time.”

She smiles. “How else can I have the last word in this conversation?”

And it’s that which reminds him that it ought to be the last words, for he’s not to return the Princess to her table. When the dancing ends, though a lot of the men stay on to keep drinking, the women normally go upstairs to rest. Unless they’re part of the few going out for an ‘accompanied walk’ before bed. Those ‘walks’ are really just a sneaky way for some young men and women to walk out into the darkness of night for half an hour with the person they’ve flirted so far that night, hoping to steal a kiss or two. The parents are normally not concerned that anything more dangerous could happen, as it being quite the popular enough activity, there’s always too many others around the garden for it to be a too private affair.

And as he stands there, with this vague inclination not to end this night just yet, he is also deeply mortified to actually ask that question. For, while he knows about it, it’s not normally something he takes part in, and he doesn’t honestly know if that is what he wants now. And, depending on what the Princess’ own inclination might be, the affair could turn awkward, one way or another, very quickly. If he’s to be fair, while not a simpleton, he’s not even versed enough in these kind of charms as to even know how he would go about reaching that point, once they’re out in the cold, even if he would decide he does have such a fancy. For, he’s not sure. He’s just got a light, positive feeling about him, and he does feel like it would give him pleasure to  _ talk  _ more. 

And as they walk in silence towards the doors, which could either lead outside to the right, or upstairs to the left, he spies the milling couples being handed their cloaks and coats and taking the right turn, and he’s kind of reaching a momentary keenness to just follow a silly instinct, this once.

He turns to Princess Elia, and sees her likewise looking in that direction, as they are almost reaching the exit, but he can’t tell whether there’s wistfulness or dread at the concept. But he doesn’t feel like he’s got as weak an ego as to be demolished by rejection, so he turns to her when they reach their stop. 

But it’s the Princess who gets to talk first, “Thank you for your company, and goodnight. I believe the first stage of the jousting starts tomorrow, and you’re on the lists.”

He smiles, mentally laughing at himself - though not quite sure exactly from which angle he ought to look at it. “Indeed.”

“I wish you goodluck then,” she says with her ever gentle, sweet smile, and he gallantly bows and kisses her hand, before letting go of her completely. 

That’s for the best, truly. That  _ was  _ all very silly.

  
  
  


**_Elia_ **

  
  


She turns almost too quickly from him, afraid to be seen watching him depart too earnestly. She feels a bit ridiculous, having that little tingly feeling as if she were some young girl. 

He’s suffered her brother’s antics gallantly, and courteously kept her company at his bidding, part of it that still kind of mortifies her, especially as she’s still not sure just under what pretext he and Ashara have brought him along, and just how much of the courtesy of it was part of a ‘begged for by friends and family’ undertaking. But it was a nice change of circumstances for the night. He was a charming man in different ways than she’s expected, with chiselled manners, and refined gallantry, and admittedly just a bit of that affectedness of his rank, but in an level-headed way that made it just mostly part of his charm. And, of course, he is also decidedly handsome. 

So it was nice, to have a bit of that kind of a silly state of mind, for a little white. It’s been quite a while. She’s forgotten how it feels to experience that kind of giddy foolish fancy while standing next to some nice looking man, talking about anything and nothing. 

She sees Oberyn, and waves at him just so, as both goodbye and goodnight, knowing  _ he  _ would surely be out and about for a few more hours. But Oberyn comes forth to see her there, frowning a bit - though Ashara is clearly waiting for him on the side. “You’re going up?”

“Yes. I can see you have different plans, but don’t worry. I can find my way around.”

But Oberyn keeps on frowning, leaning in to speak in a lower voice. “Your game was good; whatever you've been doing was working, from what I saw. And you were about to get even more than we've bargained for. So what happened? Was he  _ that  _ intolerable, up close?" 

Elia blinks, tilting her head in confusion. "No, he wasn't-" 

“Then why didn’t you stay to go on a walk with him?”

“He didn’t invite me? And I wasn’t going to do it myself - you know me better than that.”

“ _ Listen _ . I know a man’s mannerism. If he didn’t ask, he was  _ about to _ .”

"I didn’t think-" She narrows her eyes. "So you really think he meant to ask me to stay?"

_ “Elia _ .”

And now that she looks back on it, she understands his parting smile. He was  _ amused _ by her sudden parting words. Either because he thought she saw his intentions, and cut him short and briskly, or because he’s actually understood she was being absolutely clueless about his intentions. 

He shrugs. “Well, you know he’s interested. You can still get him some other time, if you still wish to.”

“‘Some other time’,” she shakes her head slightly, finding it in her to be diverted about it. “Oh, no. That was fun and all, Oberyn, but I’m not bent on  _ chasing  _ him, in line with the others, to tell the truth. Now, go,” she waves him away. “Ashara is waiting.”

“Oh, right,” he snaps out of it as if he’s only now remembering her.

“ _ Oberyn _ ,” she chastises him. But he’s already walking away backwards, blowing her a kiss.

  
  


**_Jaime_ **

He was glad to see Cersei come his way in the dark, to their agreed, sheltered meeting place. But her irritated face doesn’t speak of good news. So he can only guess that the answer to schemings she’s been attempting has come back negative, and he can only be irked himself in turn, to try to rationalise why - the incomprehensible reason why someone of Jaime’s prospects would be turned down.

All the same, he goes forth to kiss her, but Cersei is put out enough that she would even refuse him that, which only increases his provocation. He takes her hand, eagerly meaning to console her, as she stands there pouting. “What is it? What reason would the King have to reject me?”

She looks away, affected. “You will not like to hear his words, Jaime. I am still angry myself for having them forwarded to me. Awful man!”

Jaime grits his teeth, “ _ What _ did he say, Cersei?”

“He said… ‘his Kingguard is no  _ nursery _ ’. Or so my friend says.”

Jaime groans, kicking the nearest tree. “Father is right about him. Such a  _ King  _ we have. Why is he still allowing  _ you  _ to be around those people to  _ serve _ ? You don’t  _ have to _ .”

“Jaime, we’ve talked about this,” she holds on earnestly to his arm, looking him intently in the eyes. “This is the one way for  _ us  _ to be together. Else I would be someone’s wife somewhere far from you, and you’d be Lord of Casterly Rock. This is the only position by which we can still avoid that.”

  
  


“Well, I don’t like it,” Jaime retorts, for he remembers her too genuine pleasure during the Prince’s singing tonight, and it doesn’t sit right with him. “ _ You _ will still get married to someone else, and someone you seem to like quite too much as a prospect, if you ask me.”

“You know  _ I  _ have no way of avoiding being married off by Father, and I am just working towards the best prospect for  _ us _ , Jaime. He’d drag me back home by the hair if I tried to become a… a septa, or anything like it, but not even  _ he  _ can undo a Kingsguard vow.” 

Jaime can’t but grudgingly agree with that reasoning. “Well, it doesn’t even matter. Because the King doesn’t want me, apparently.”

Cersei smiles the playful smile that he loves, and comes closer, caringly taking his face in her hand. “You just stay unmarried for as long as it takes, and I will get that solved with the  _ Prince  _ instead, once I get him.”

And she finally allows him his desired kiss, and of course he can no longer mutter a word against anything she might ask of him, after.

***

Many were those who boasted about being the ones to bring the mysterious boy, when the King has insisted to see the person under the helm. And Jaime has to be the one to succeed. He’s heard others assured he’s run off towards the eastern woods, but Jaime is assured he went the other way, towards the stables. 

If he does that kind of service for the Crown, King Aerys will have to acknowledge it, and offer to reward him in some way, and if Jaime makes a public display of ‘wanting nothing but to serve him’, he might be persuaded to accept him, after all. Father has been talking about marriage again, and finding him a bride before the end of this, so, really, no matter what Cersei says,  _ he  _ is running out of time. 

He snorts to recognise the mismatched coloured armour, when he’s taken the next corner. The fool is still slowed down carrying that dumb - and very recognisable - shield, instead of getting rid of it. Jaime himself speeds up, jumping and catching the boy by the helm’s back. The too high pitched scream makes him flinch when, in the following struggle, the ‘knight’ finds it he’d rather relinguish the helm, if there’s no other way, and a thick stream of hair from within unrolls before his eyes. It is Jaime knotting his hand in that very hair that makes  _ her  _ scream, when he desperately reaches out, afraid to lose his prey. And her eyes turn to him, not in pain, but with a feral look. 

Jaime messes up his face, his reaction to the face beneath something between amusement, confusion, and the incredulity of a man facing ridiculousness. 

“He turned  _ that way _ !” he hears a heavy sounding voice going. 

Thinking quickly, he pulls  _ her _ roughly into the stables, easily pinning her arms useless when she tries to resist, and covering her mouth when she tries to cry out. “Fucking leave  _ that _ ,” he kicks at the silly looking painted shield as he backs her into one of the enclosures, and he catches a glimpse of it landing face down into a hay pile. She struggles like a wild animal within his grasp, and he has to pin her down on the ground to make it easier to keep his hold on her, but, once there, her desperation is useless, for she’s skimpy like a young boy, and he’s got a swordsman's muscle on him. So he stays there with her almost effortlessly, listening to the men coming in, finding the shield, deciding it’s too much trouble to keep looking, and to take the shield back to the King as the only trace left of their fugitive. 

Well,  _ fuck _ them.  _ Jaime  _ was the one to find her. And so  _ he  _ gets to decide what to do with the ‘mysterious knight’, alright?

“I will take my hand off, but, mind you, you better not scream. If you do, and we’re found, they’ll look you up and down and connect the dots, and you’ll be in big _ ger _ trouble. You’ve heard tales of what our King does to those who displease him, didn’t you?”

She’s clearly not happy about it, but seems to understand the severity of his threat. 

Jaime takes his hand off her face, taking a closer look at it. “Hm, so  _ who  _ do we have here, eh?” 

She’s got a long and slim, but unchiseled face, with soft looking, yet almost flat cheeks and a pointed chin. Big eyes and a small, pouted mouth. She is reasonably pretty altogether, he supposes, but if one would cut her thick hair - aside from being her most appealing feature, even as a tangle - she would look more like a pretty boy than a pretty young woman. The slim body does not alleviate that impression. 

  
  


“That’s none of your business. Get  _ off  _ of me, you  _ animal _ .”

“Too bad. I can stay here  _ all day _ , no problem. And you may call me  _ Ser _ , for a proper appellative. How about  _ you _ ? Anyone likely to look for you, putting you in more trouble if you’re not to be found? Or, better yet,  _ no one _ likely to look for you?” He doesn’t have it in him not to sneer some at her widening eyes.

“I am a  _ Lady _ , not some kitchen wench you can have your way with without consequences.  _ Get off of me _ !”

He’s half appalled at the implication, half diverted. The second wins as a reaction, though, and he chuckles at the concept. “Look at the  _ state  _ of you. You think you’re appealing enough to me even for a quick tumble in the hay? I could call a stable boy in, if you are too eager and were getting your hopes up. Such should do for a  _ Lady  _ like  _ you _ . And  _ which Lady  _ are you, anyway?”

He’s not fully convinced she’s telling the truth in that matter, in all honesty. Though he would understand the necessity she may have seen in the lie, for the sake of avoiding rape. And she is clearly in no hurry to answer. But he can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t want to, or because she doesn’t  _ have  _ an answer. 

“As I said, I could stay here  _ all _ day,” he needles.

She takes in a deep breath, momentarily closing her eyes. “ _ Lyanna Stark _ . My name is Lyanna Stark, and you are behaving dishonorably with a high lord’s daughter.”

“Ah, a  _ Northerner _ ,” he grins widely. “Of course. Where else would such a savage be coming from?” He’s never paid too much attention to the Starks, so he has no idea what Lady Lyanna looks like, but the girl is definitely not acting with any humility of rank, or humbleness. He does remember furtively making the acquaintance of Lord Brandon, though, and, to tell the truth, he believes there  _ is _ a semblance in there. “Fine, I’m willing to believe you,” he nods slightly, pouting his lips. 

He gets up, and lifts her as well, but without actually releasing his hold on her locked arms.

“You said you would let me go,” she whines.

“I never said  _ that _ . See, you are still a looked after fugitive, and I haven’t decided what to do with you, yet. Should we find out how much whose daughter you are matters to the  _ King _ ?” he taunts her rather cruelly. 

“You have no ounce of integrity or gallantry,  _ Ser _ ,” she says through gritted teeth, glaring up at him in a most vicious way.

Jaime sighs. “Let’s see... You give me a good reason why I should let you get away with making a fool of yourself out there,  _ Lady Lyanna Stark _ , and I might consider letting you go.”

“I didn’t ‘make a fool of myself’,” she responds to that bit unexpectedly cocky. “I threw three  _ knights _ like you into the dirt quite easily.”

And Jaime can’t really say anything mocking against  _ that _ . For  _ that  _ was an impressive feat, whether as a young boy or girl.

“That’s fair. But, you see, as it stands, getting the King’s approval and gratitude still sounds quite tempting for me.”

“ _ You- _ ” She’s clearly about to come up with some very creative words, but he gives  _ Lady Lyanna _ an arrogant warning look, reminding her she’s in no position to antagonise him. She purses her lips, her nostrils flaring, and finally admits, “I was  _ defending _ a  _ friend _ . Those knights’ squires were mocking and beating the young son of one of my father’s bannermen the other day. Someone  _ had  _ to teach them a lesson about picking on the small and weak just because they could. Not that  _ you  _ should be the kind of person to disagree with such behaviour. But there’s no such thing as actual worth in  _ knighthood  _ in the South, I suppose.”

Jaime is taken aback, frowning, and spitefully and suddenly releases her arms, pushing her away. 

She rubs her wrists, hissing, and spits, “ _ Brute _ ,” with a stern side eye in his direction.

And Jaime is irritated by the appellative, but also slightly remorseful, for he hasn’t thought he’s gripped her  _ that  _ roughly. 

“ _ Wait _ ,” he raises his arm and stops Lady Lyanna as she tries to hurriedly leave; and she looks back up at him, half provoked, half alarmed. “Take that off,” he tells her.

Confusion is then added to her previous look.

“The  _ armour _ , you  _ stupid _ girl,” he clarifies. “Making such a fuss about  _ me _ revealing your secret, but you’re going to go out and do it yourself.”

She colours. “I can’t do it  _ myself _ . I need-”

He steps up to her, annoyed, and ignores her flinching caused by it, going forth to expertly unpin and dismantle the pieces, with the ease of a young man not so long ago done with being someone’s squire. She’s clearly uncomfortable when he lowers and starts working on her legs, but he’s in no mood to care about the  _ Lady _ ’s sensibilities. Pulling off the final piece, he goes, “ _ Now _ go. I’ll get rid of these.” 

And she doesn’t wait to be told a second time, flying past him without another look. 

Jaime kicks the stable’s wall, swearing. He’s done the right, proper thing, and he  _ hates  _ it.

  
  
  
  



End file.
